


Pig

by charcoalmink



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Choking, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:50:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalmink/pseuds/charcoalmink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gansey was an unmovable force, regal and unaffected by his surroundings. Kavinsky proves that Gansey, for all his glory, was nothing but a boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pig

Gansey woke up in a strange mood. It was one that felt familiar but couldn’t be named. He opened his eyes, half-expecting to see crisscrossing beams but saw only a swathe of black-brown. He extended his hand for the wire frames that sat on his desk and slid them on--

There, dark, glinting slashes of wooden planks weaving above his head.

He sat up and the strange mood took shape, solidifying until it sat like a stone in his stomach. Gansey frowned and glanced at the clock. He had an hour before he had to get up for class. It would be a futile effort and an exercise in frustration to try and take advantage of that single hour.

Gansey touched his phone, hoping wildly for a moment that it would ring. But it was too early (too late?) for a call and he pushed the fearful thought from his mind.

Tearing off the covers, he padded quietly to Monmounth’s kitchen/bathroom/laundry room and resigned himself to an early morning.

 

 

 

 

Insomnia, in Kavinsky’s opinion, was a concept for the poor. It was for people who didn’t-- couldn’t-- live like kings, like gods, like those who controlled their own reality. Insomnia was for the wanting.

The wanting, apparently, included the golden boy of Aglionby.

Kavinsky eyed the garish red slice the Camaro cut into the landscape of Henrietta under the green beam of a traffic light. He didn’t move. Tapping the stem of his glasses against his teeth, he considered the remnants of the growl Gansey III left behind.

Moments after the Camaro disappeared around a bend, Kavinsky’s Mitsubishi followed in its wake, its gaping black mouth hungry for trouble.

 

 

 

 

The halls were silent, still sleeping like the rest of its students. Its corridors suddenly seemed inappropriately large to Gansey, who wondered if it was Blue’s or Adam’s influence that he’d conceived that thought. 

It was hard to remember, sometimes, how he was before he’d met either of them.

“HEY THREE!” A rattling shout careened off the walls and nearly sent Gansey whirling. But he only froze, stiffened by a flash of fear. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing to calm the panicked race of his pulse. He knew that voice.

“Kavinsky,” Gansey finally managed, turning to face the natural disaster that was less boy and more nightmare. “Good morning.”

Joseph Kavinsky, for once, was wearing the required Aglionby attire. Or at least a violent resemblance of one.The effect was so jarring that it took Gansey a moment to remember not to move his face.

“Good morning,” Kavinsky echoed, though his voice had gone at least two octaves higher and had an exaggerated mockery of Gansey’s regal accent. 

“What can I--” 

But before Gansey could even think of forming the rest of his question, Kavinsky’s arm shot out, his hand grabbing a fistful of Gansey’s crisp white shirt.

“Do for me? Oh I don’t know, exchange some pleasant conversation,” Kavinsky said calmly, his tone at odds with the ferocious way he was dragging Gansey along.

Frantically, Gansey’s Oxfords sought purchase on the slick, immaculate floors, his hands jumping up to grab at Kavinsky’s offending limb.

“What,” there was a distinct pause, long enough to enter an expletive, “Are you doing?” Gansey demanded. He didn’t swear, on principle: (“Swearing is for those who do not have the vocabulary to express themselves adequately”).

“You deaf, Three? That Pig finally blow your ears out?” It could have been pig, but Gansey couldn’t be sure.

There was a sense of dread that was rising within Gansey, the sort of fear that made his hands grow clammy and his knees feel weak. But it was an unfamiliar breed of fear, one he’d never encountered, or thought he’d ever encounter, before.

“Kavinsky,” Gansey started but found he’d lacked the foresight to think his words out. And it wrenched something in him to hear his own voice, where it should have been firm and incensed but only came out weak and uncertain.

“Shut up,” Kavinsky added, almost absently, as he burst through the door of the boy’s bathroom. He hurled Gansey into the dim, burnt sienna room and locked Gansey’s only exit behind him.

Free of Kavinsky’s grasp, Gansey instantly straightened and a cool, livid expression slithered over his face. The lines of his mouth and brows were drawn fiercely downward in way that was obvious to Kavinsky, I never look like this. A slimy, disquieting thrill coiled around Kavinsky’s spine.

“Get out of the way,” Gansey said plainly as he straightened his tie and the collar of his shirt. “And I’ll forget this ever happened.” He didn’t say it like it was a threat, because Gansey III didn’t make threats. But there was a storm simmering beneath that perfectly-pressed blazer and the Virginia prince was standing in the eye of it. 

“I don’t think so, Dick,” Kavinsky said thoughtfully. He mirrored Gansey’s motions, plucking at his own atrociously knotted tie. “I don’t think you’ll forget any of it.” His face was a twisted jester’s mask full of glee as his hands fell away and his feet moved forward. 

Gansey wanted to back away as every inch between them disappeared but he stood his ground. He met and held Kavinsky’s burning gaze with the practiced ease of being Ronan Lynch’s friend.

They were toe to toe, the tips of Kavinsky’s shiny black Oxfords scuffing against Gansey’s brown ones. For a wild moment, Gansey thought Kavinsky was going to kiss him. Every one of Gansey’s nerves felt like it was vibrating with the intensity to remain still as he and Kavinsky traded breaths. Though Gansey wasn’t much taller, the breadth of Kavinsky’s shoulders and the sheer enormity of his self-importance eclipsed Gansey’s form.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Gansey saw Kavinsky raise his arm before it was shoved in his face. Jerking back to avoid a collision, Gansey found himself halted by the row of sinks that dug into his hip.

“What--”

In Kavinsky’s fist was a key and its significance escaped Gansey’s notice until he saw the fob dangling from its end. He caught a flash of a tiny, checkered circle. It looked, suspiciously, a lot like it belonged to a BMW.

“Here,” Kavinsky said generously, voice oozing sugar. He crowded Gansey against the countertop until their knees were touching. His arm slithered back and this time Gansey couldn’t control the jump of his muscles as Kavinsky carefully tucked the key into the back pocket of his chinos. “Thought you might need a spare.”

There was, Gansey felt, something horribly morbid about the gesture.

A thousand responses flashed through Gansey’s head even as he struggled to sort through the agitated tossing of his stomach. Finally, he reacted in the only way he thought the situation warranted: that is, like Ronan Lynch.

Thrusting his hands up, Gansey put as much force into his shove as possible, heaving Kavinsky’s  weight off of him. The brutality of the motion caught Kavinsky off guard, who stumbled ungracefully against the metal stalls. There was a bloody, ugly thing twisting through Gansey’s veins and he thought, Is this how he feels all the time?

“Rude, _Dick_ ,” Kavinsky spat like he’d meant to say _fuck._ But he was grinning an awful, distended grin that stretched his otherwise handsome face into something ghoulish.

This felt nothing like wild Gansey or Gansey the boy or any other manifestation of Gansey that felt familiar. This felt like something entirely new but unwelcome and unbidden. It was a painful and cloying and deliriously tempting Gansey who was entirely unworthy of Glendower’s favor.

It was a chillingly sobering realization that dawned like a punch to the gut. Gansey’s fingers uncurled from the fists he hadn’t known he’d made as he threw a look at Kavinsky. Kavinsky, who was now considering him with something that looked disturbingly less like menace and more like something Gansey had no name for. The stone that had sat in his stomach since he’d risen grew bigger and heavier.

“That’s the thanks I get? Someone didn’t teach you how to be gracious,” Kavinsky said and Gansey wondered where on earth Kavinsky had learned to talk to people. 

“I should say the same to you.” Gansey replied as he adjusted his jacket. He still felt shaken and his knees had yet to regain their normal strength but he wasn’t about to let Kavinsky notice a hint of his discomfort. He tugged the ends of his sleeves to their rightful places at his wrists before taking a step for the door.

“Wait. We haven’t finished our conversation yet.” Kavinsky charged back into Gansey’s immediate line of sight as Gansey wondered at which point in their altercation the conversation had begun.

“Then get on with it, Kavinsky. I have class.” Gansey’s voice cut like a blade, stinging with heavy revulsion.

“I know your secret,” Kavinsky said and it was delivered with such satisfaction that it took Gansey a second to remember that he wasn’t sure if he had a secret at all.

“What are you talking about,” Gansey demanded before an image of Blue popped into his head. The stone in his stomach swelled and crushed his lungs, pushing the air from his chest. No, Kavinsky may not have been an idiot but he was oblivious to most things as wealthy boys were wont to do. Gansey couldn’t imagine how his furtive, secret, dizzy relationship with Blue could have attracted the attention of Joseph Kavinsky.

“Your secret,” Kavinsky repeated as if Gansey were a particularly dull child. His steps were loud and definite in the bathroom as he approached slowly, looking very much like Ronan did on the nights he slurred his words. 

“But that’s not right, I guess,” Kavinsky continued, “It’s Ronan’s secret.” This revelation was several degrees more alarming than if Kavinsky had led Gansey to believe that the secret had been his. He couldn’t imagine what Kavinsky knew about the middle Lynch, a boy who was made entirely of secrets. Gansey felt sick while his mind raced to deduce what Kavinsky had uncovered. 

Gansey had never asked for the power to destroy Ronan Lynch but he cradled the responsibility with fierce fraternity.

By now, Kavinsky was much closer than he’d been before and Gansey was trapped against a corner of the sinks and a wall of mirrors. He was nearer to the door but more entrenched. His left wrist felt inexplicably heavy with the weight of his watch. When will the bell ring?

Kavinsky was about half an inch shorter than Gansey but at the moment he looked unbelievably enormous. Gansey tried to summon the same fury he’d demonstrated before but instantly felt hollow as Kavinsky produced another gift from the rumpled disaster of his jacket. 

Gansey stared at the gleaming, elegant curves of a revolver and thought, So that’s why dresses he like that.

Then he thought, He won’t shoot me. 

But as Kavinsky touched the cool end of the gun to Gansey’s cheek, Gansey remembered that Kavinsky was crazy. Kavinsky was wildly, chaotically, unpredictably insane.

“What,” Gansey said, his voice remarkably even, considering the how fast his pulse was racing, “Is the secret?”

It was a response Kavinsky hadn’t expected but exceedingly pleased him nonetheless. “I can’t tell you,” he said conspiratorially. Gleefully. “Then it wouldn’t be a secret.”

Gansey remained unmoved and unchanged; and even like this, perhaps especially like this, Gansey was at his most regal. Chin tipped up, eyes fiery with rage, lips thinned into the perfect shape of control. Kavinsky was impressed and he demonstrated his appreciation by tracing Gansey’s mouth with the barrel.

Gansey stopped just short of spitting into Kavinsky’s face. At this point he was beyond anything recognizable, this tangled mess of fear and repulsion and anxiety. He wanted out and he wanted out _now_. 

“What do you want,” Gansey said flatly and it took every ounce of control he had not to grimace as metal glanced past his tongue. He was growing tired of Kavinsky’s drawn-out game and wished it could have all just ended with blossoming bruises and bloody knuckles. 

“Kiss it,” Kavinsky said, punctuating the command with a tap to Gansey’s chin.

A chill blanketed him like a blast of icy air, as if Noah had stolen all the breath from Gansey’s lungs. 

“No.”

Kavinsky simply regarded him thoughtfully. Then he scratched at the back of his head, the revolver nothing but a silver flash as it arced over them. It was a gesture so casual and so out of place that it served to remind Gansey that Kavinsky, too, was just a boy. But the thought dissipated like smoke as the gun returned a moment later and Gansey caught a flash of letters inscribed on the side.

“I want you to kiss it. Then we can both call it a day. How about it?” Kavinsky proposed the suggestion as if it were a perfectly reasonable compromise. He bared his teeth at Gansey.

“No,” Gansey repeated, no more amused than had been before. Could I hit him? The thought rattled madly inside his brain but memory of past experience kept him from following through. But the want was still there, the burning desire to _hurt_ hovering seductively before him.

“That’s a shame, Three,” Kavinsky said and Gansey noticed with sickening apprehension that Kavinsky was thrilled. “Cause you have such a nice mouth.”

Kavinsky’s arm lashed out, grabbing Gansey’s jaw violently, his fingers digging gouges out of Gansey’s hollowed cheeks. For a second, Gansey forgot entirely about the gun, about the immediate danger to his person, and he struggled, tossing his head back and sending stars across his vision as his skull hit a mirror. But Kavinsky wasn’t deterred, his weight slamming Gansey against the wall as something cold and hard and awful clacked against Gansey’s teeth. 

Gansey gagged as tears sprang to his eyes, rendering his contacts useless. There was a painful, burning scrape along the roof of his mouth from where Kavinsky had shoved the barrel. He choked uselessly, hands scrabbling at Kavinsky’s wrist in an attempt to alleviate the pressure.

Kavinsky, for all that he appeared in control, stared wide-eyed in enraptured fixation at the frantic bobbing of Gansey’s Adam’s apple. The wet, bitten-off sounds that leaked from his mouth seemed wholly incongruous to the Gansey that Kavinsky knew. His fingers tightened around grip of the gun as something flipped and thrashed and writhed in his stomach, clawing for attention.

“Should’ve kissed it,” Kavinsky chided as if scolding a child, sliding the revolver from Gansey’s mouth. A string of rough coughs erupted from Gansey, his chest heaving beneath his perfectly knotted tie. Kavinsky, uninterested, focused instead on the gossamer thread of saliva that connected Gansey’s reddened mouth to the gun. He couldn’t stop staring at the shiny slickness at the end of the barrel.

“Fuck you,” Gansey said with so much venom that for a moment, Kavinsky thought he caught a glimmer of what Ronan Lynch saw. 

“I’m not a homewrecker,” Kavinsky replied amiably, rubbing the gun against the fluttering pulse at Gansey’s jaw. He left a trail of cooling wetness down the line of Gansey’s throat, where the revolver rose and fell with Gansey’s swallow.

“No, you’re just a wreck.” The words tumbled from Gansey’s mouth before he could stop them. He was filled with a roiling, tumbling rage that sought an outlet and found none. His clammy hands shook from where they were fisted tightly against his thighs, aching for pain.

“That’s not very nice,” Kavinsky said though he clearly remained unaffected. His fingers found Gansey’s jaw again, thumb pushing brutishly down on Gansey’s lower lip. Gansey’s teeth remained firmly clenched and his nostrils flared with each angry exhale. His hazel eyes were stormy and thunderous as he met Kavinsky’s gaze.

“Let’s try this again,” Kavinsky said brightly. The gun was skin-warm on Gansey’s top lip. “Kiss it.”

There was a wavering silence, stretching and ballooning out between them.

_Click_. 

Gansey didn’t even have to see Kavinsky’s thumb move to know what that sound meant. He’d seen enough movies to respond appropriately: with stillness.

“Three,” Kavinsky sing-songed. It was impossible to tell if he was referring to Gansey’s loathsome nickname or if he was going to start counting down.

“Two.” 

That answered it.

Kavinsky tap-tap-tapped at Gansey’s teeth with increasing pressure until he was forced to open his mouth lest he wanted a future with dentures. Gansey felt ill to his stomach as the barrel slid slippery-smooth over his tongue, the taste of metal strangely absent. His nails scratched and clawed at the smooth mirror behind him as the revolver plunged deep into his mouth.

“Gansey,” Kavinsky said patiently. He pushed forward again but not with the gun. Gansey’s stomach lurched as he was pressed flat against the wall, more parts of their body touching than Gansey had ever felt with Blue.

Kavinsky’s mouth was full of teeth and his eyes scorched a hole straight through him. Gansey didn’t look away.

Then Kavinsky’s hand abruptly left Gansey’s face to curl in his hair, the grip so alarmingly tight that Gansey’s vision grew blurry from the tears that pricked his eyes. His teeth clacked audibly and angrily around the gun.

Taking a half-step back, Kavinsky tore Gansey away from the wall and shoved him down. Gansey folded like a deck of cards, his entire head feeling as if it were about to pop off. 

“Dick, meet dick,” Kavinsky chortled as Gansey’s knees hit the floor with the flat thud of something unpleasant. Sparkles of pain rattled up through Gansey’s legs as a wave of revulsion overcame him. 

And just as suddenly as it had come, Kavinsky’s hand disappeared from his skull. But before Gansey could register its absence, he found himself propelled backwards by the force of the revolver in his mouth. A gurgle or a cough or some bastardization of both left Gansey’s throat as his spine stretched ramrod straight to accommodate the building pressure in his mouth. His jaw was burning from the uncomfortable shape it was forced to take and he was hyperaware of the drool that had begun to slide down the side of his mouth. 

Gansey kept his gaze firmly on Kavinsky’s face even as the clink of an unbuckling belt warred for his attention.

Kavinsky’s mouth looked impossible in its distended form. Flick-flick-flick and his pants unclasped, the zipper lowering halfway of its own accord from the bulge that pushed at the fabric. A viscous, honeyed thrill trickled down Kavinsky’s spine as he saw the whites of Gansey’s eyes flicker around his irises. There was a growing flush that blossomed over the bridge of Gansey’s nose and down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. Disbelief, terror, and fury all conflicted for the space between Gansey’s brows, where a violent furrow had appeared. 

The revolver clicked against Gansey’s teeth as it was removed, sending a rush of sensations up through his face. The gun didn’t go far though, as it slid all the way from Gansey’s mouth and up to his temple, leaving a slimy trail on the slope of his cheek.

Kavinsky loomed closer and the smell of _boy_ was so shockingly overwhelming that Gansey gagged again.

“Kiss it,” Kavinsky said and his voice dripped heavily with something hideous. Without meaning to, Gansey saw the tented front of Kavinsky’s pants and he breathed noisily through clenched teeth. He glared, looking braver than he felt. He couldn’t forget the promise of Kavinsky’s threat as its barrel traced one of his eyebrows. 

When Gansey didn’t move, a ripple rolled through Kavinsky’s shoulders as he shrugged, dismissive and unsurprised.

“Figures,” he sighed. Then he grabbed Gansey by the ear and hauled him forward, smothering Gansey’s face into his crotch.

The effect was immediate: Gansey’s back surging upward in a horrified attempt to throw himself back. But the blunt nails that carved grooves into the side of his skull kept him from going very far. The appalled, distressing sound that Gansey let out was muffled, his hands shoving savagely at Kavinsky’s knees. Kavinsky faltered only for a second before his grip on Gansey’s ear tightened and with a flick of his elbow, sent Gansey’s tousled head bouncing off the mirror. 

In a blinding, red second, the surroundings around Gansey winked out of existence, only to return shaky and upended as fireworks exploded behind his eyes. He groaned, feeling every muscle in his body turn inward, the pounding at the base of his skull shatteringly excruciating.

Kavinsky made a soft cooing sound as he waited for Gansey’s vision to stop swimming. When it finally cleared, Gansey prayed fervently for another head injury, preferably of the unconscious sort.

Because as he blinked the world back around him, the world had narrowed down to Kavinsky’s distorted face and the hand he had shoved down the front of his pants. 

Bile rose in the back of Gansey’s throat as he firmly kept his gaze averted from the slow, exaggerated motion of Kavinsky’s arm. Still, every fractured nerve in his body was achingly aware of each movement as every stroke caused the back of Kavinsky’s wrist to bump against Gansey’s chin.

“I told you,” Kavinsky said with a voice like gravel. “That you have a nice mouth, right?”

A something, a something that was nasty and vile and ghastly, made its way through Gansey’s gut, corroding his insides. He felt sick, actually really and truly ill as Kavinsky’s hand slid back out only to curl around his waistband. A frantic, panicked feeling started to boil inside Gansey at the gesture and he started struggling again, his hands beating useless punches against the meat of Kavinsky’s thighs.

“No,” Gansey said, single-minded in his fear. There was a pressure building in him, threatening to burst. “ _Get the fuck away from me_.” He spat at the revolver that scraped against the corner of his mouth. His mind was scrambled, clambering for something, anything. Images of Ronan’s disgusted sneer flashed through Gansey’s head. Adam’s pity, his understanding face offering comfort but delivering shame. Noah’s hands, fluttering like wounded birds as he searched for a distraction. Blue. _Blue_.

Kavinsky stilled Gansey’s frenzied outburst with a fierce shove to the underside of his chin. Curved metal bit into concave flesh, gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, morbidly tantalizing. Gansey’s throat clicked audibly as he swallowed. The coffin in his chest hungered to call Kavinsky’s bluff.

The bathroom was silent save for the panting of two breathless boys.

Kavinsky’s waistband cut a white slash against dark skin, revealing more and more and more. Gansey’s breathing crescendoed to a pace he was intimately familiar with. But the feeling was normally associated with prickles of death at his fingers, not the heavy, musky scent of gasoline and sex. Gansey felt dizzy with the effort to keep his breathing even, his heart hammering furiously against his ribs.

For a blessed several seconds, all Gansey could see was a blur of skin and Kavinsky’s scabbed knuckles. But as his fist began to lower, Gansey shut his eyes for the first time since this all started, hurtling headfirst into panic and hastily abandoning pride.

“Hey, that’s no fun,” Kavinsky said, lifting the barrel and jamming it at Gansey’s mouth. Gansey’s eyes flew open with a grunt, his jaw forced wide to accept the intrusion. It didn’t get easier the third time, as Kavinsky either forgot or didn’t care about how much Gansey’s throat could take. As Gansey gagged, he oscillated wildly between hoping or fearing that he was going to retch all over Kavinsky’s shoes.

Once the moment passed, Gansey realized he’d been staring at Kavinsky’s stomach, muscles flashing beneath the rumpled hem of his shirt. Then he saw the arced jut of a hip. Then he saw curls of dark hair. Then he saw the tops of Kavinsky’s thighs and Gansey’s breathing became thin and reedy. 

“Breathe through your nose,” Kavinsky instructed, as though that would be any help. “There you go, it’s just like your first time. Man, how does Lynch put up with you?”

The mention of Ronan’s name twisted something grotesque and perverted in Gansey’s gut. But it was hard to hold onto his rage when it was rapidly being replaced by panic.

Kavinsky watched him carefully, his Cheshire smile carved in place as he cupped a hand over himself and squeezed. The unabashed groan he uttered sent a shock through Gansey, searing every inch of his skin. Kavinsky stroked himself slowly and languidly, as if his classmates fellating guns was something he masturbated to regularly.

“Good boy.” He pulled the barrel from Gansey’s mouth and plunged it back in, keeping time with the glide of his fist. Gansey kept trying to close his eyes, to remove himself from the worst of it, but every time Kavinsky caught him there’d be a particularly pointed shove against the bruised roof of his mouth. 

Gansey’s cheeks remained ruddy with either rage or humiliation as Kavinsky tilted his hips forward, the glancing touch of his fingers his only warning. Then Gansey bit down hard on the revolver as Kavinsky smeared his dick along the hollow of Gansey’s cheek. A wretched sound escaped him, the noise barely stifled by the obstruction in his mouth. But that only seemed to encourage Kavinsky as his movements quickened and the sound of flesh on flesh filled the room.

Gradually, the gun was pushed into the soft palate of Gansey’s tongue just as he felt something warm and damp smudge over his cheek. A shiver of disgust trembled through Gansey even as he felt the rhythmic scuff of Kavinsky’s knuckles increase in pace. The air grew humid and thick and Gansey’s stomach wobbled dangerously as the low, guttural sounds that escaped Kavinsky grew louder and more urgent. 

Gansey shut down 

There was no other word for it, for the blanking of his mind and the defeated dip of his shoulders. Kavinsky noticed it almost as soon as it happened. His gaze hungrily swallowed the vision of Gansey III, whose mess of untamed hair made him appear shockingly young. His normally immaculate attire was disheveled beyond use and when Kavinsky jerked Gansey’s chin up to meet his gaze, he saw nothing but a dull echo of the boy he’d hauled in that morning.

Kavinsky’s stomach dropped and it felt a little like the first crunch of metal, the burning of rubber, the lurch towards impending doom as his orgasm hit him like a head-on collision. 

Gansey, Kavinsky thought, looked very nice in white.

As the pleasure settled into a low simmer, Kavinsky sloppily gathered the come that streaked Gansey’s face. He pulled the revolver nearly all the way from the other’s lips, taking care to keep a good inch of the barrel still firmly on the bottom row of Gansey’s teeth. Then he transferred the sticky wetness from his fingers to the gun and shoved the remaining end of the barrel into Gansey’s mouth.

That seemed to be all it took for Gansey’s stomach to finally protest as he suddenly careened forward, spitting globs of saliva and semen onto the floor. Kavinsky danced out of the way, though remained at arm’s length as Gansey supported himself on shaky arms. Dribbles of spit continued to pool in tiny puddles under Gansey’s limp frame.

Kavinsky pressed the gun to the middle of Gansey’s forehead, his finger on the trigger.

Gansey closed his eyes.

...

...

...

_Click_.

A pregnant pause. Then the revolver spun, dangling on the end of Kavinsky’s finger like a harmless ornament.

Kavinsky said, “Catch you later, Dick,” and the gun fell to the floor with a clatter.

It spiraled on its side and by the time it stopped spinning, Kavinsky had already disappeared.

Gansey continued staring at the gun, feeling hollow and strange. Then with unsteady hands, he clawed his way into a standing position, though it was hard to remain upright when his legs had long gone numb. He draped himself against the counter until he regained feeling in his feet again. A damp paper towel scrubbed at his face until it felt like the only way to get clean was with an entirely new face. He adjusted his shirt and jacket. He undid his tie and redid it. He untied it and did it again. He untied it and stuffed it into his back pocket.

His fingertips touched a cool piece of metal and Gansey remembered the key.

All at once, Gansey felt the crushing weight of all the unnamed things he didn’t want to think about. 

He put on his tie. He picked up the gun. 

Now that he held it in his hands, he could see clearly the letters that had been carved into its gleaming side.

P I G

Mechanically, Gansey grabbed fistfuls of paper towels from the dispenser, enough to wrap the gun in, enough to make it look like it was just a ball of trash.

Gansey turned to look at the door and he felt hollow again. He clung to the empty feeling like a lifeboat. It kept his face still.

Leaving the bathroom, Gansey was hit with a jarring sea of faces. Of students filling the corridors and of voices bouncing off walls. Instantly, it was all too much and Gansey thought for an hysterical moment that he was going to start screaming. Or worse, crying.

“--sey! Gansey! The fuck is wrong with you?” Ronan Lynch’s voice cut like a dagger through the white noise.

Gansey turned, more out of reflex than with any sense of acknowledgment. Several feet away, Adam trailed after his advancing friend. Ronan’s suspicious gaze flickered from Gansey to the still-swinging bathroom door before finally settling on the massive, crumbled mess Gansey held in his arms.

“What is that, an abortion?” Ronan demanded, much to the scandalized stares of the students who overheard.

“Ronan, shut up,” Adam snapped, uncharacteristically savage as he wedged himself between Gansey and the other boy. His eyes skipped over Gansey’s hair, which looked Wrong, and his clothes, which looked More Wrong, and his face, which looked-- like it didn’t belong to anyone Adam knew.

Gansey wordlessly shoved the unwanted burden in Ronan’s hands as he retreated. Adam opened his mouth but then shut it again as he exchanged a look with Ronan, whose expression had become enraged.

“What is it?” Adam asked, dreading but wanting to see whatever Ronan had cradled against his chest.

“Nothing,” Ronan snarled before he abruptly spun around and stalked down the very same way they’d entered, clearly discarding every intention he’d had of going to class.

Bewildered, Adam whirled to face Gansey, but caught only a flash of his retreating back before the rest of Aglionby swallowed him whole.   



End file.
